


The Grim Particulars

by yet_intrepid



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Capture, Dehumanization, Games, Gen, Hand injury, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Whump, emphasis on the hurt, just as a warning, uh so the 'dehumanization' tag has to do with pee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 04:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13942674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: “Can’t believe Kolivan trusted these guys,” Keith mutters. He shifts awkwardly in the tight space, trying to alleviate some of the pressure on his arms, which are cuffed behind his back. “I always knew they were sketchy.”“They’re illegal weapons dealers,” Shiro replies. “Of course they’re sketchy.”Keith grunts, half-angry and half-amused, and gives up readjusting his position. It’s just as well, really, Shiro thinks. They’re in a tiny closet on a tiny ship, and there’s barely room for them to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee.





	The Grim Particulars

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Collapsing Stars" by the Mountain Goats.

This was bound to happen eventually.

Shiro knew that. Knows it. Rolo and Nyma were the first warning, and with the increased attention on Voltron, bounties from the Galra have only climbed. All the paladins have faced their share of capture attempts, and they’ll keep seeing more. Shiro knows.

But it doesn’t make this any easier.

“Can’t believe Kolivan trusted these guys,” Keith mutters. He shifts awkwardly in the tight space, trying to alleviate some of the pressure on his arms, which are cuffed behind his back. “I always knew they were sketchy.”

“They’re illegal weapons dealers,” Shiro replies. “Of course they’re sketchy.”

Keith grunts, half-angry and half-amused, and gives up readjusting his position. It’s just as well, really, Shiro thinks. They’re in a tiny closet on a tiny ship, and there’s barely room for them to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee. The floor is stained and dusty; Shiro’s already sneezed about six times.

It’s dark in the closet, too. A thin strip of light filters in under the door, but that’s it, and though occasionally Shiro can hear a voice from the cockpit, it’s never clear enough for him to tell the words over the noise of the engines.

Between the cuffs and the closeness and the lack of information, Shiro’s about ready to scream. He won’t, of course; he has more control over himself than that. But there’s a dull mix of terror and resignation in his chest, and he can’t think of a plan.

“I know you’ve probably already checked,” Keith says, “but your arm?”

“Doesn’t work.” Shiro sighs. It’s no use going into detail about how little functionality the arm actually has right now, but it’s not just that it won’t power up to slice through metal. It’s hanging heavy and limp from his shoulder like everything about it has been turned off. “Must be some kind of special cuffs.”

“Damn.” Keith thunks his head back against the wall, then groans. “Ow.”

Shiro nudges Keith’s shoulder with his own. “Hey,” he says. “Don’t do that. You’ll have a headache in an hour or so just from how cramped it is in here; it’s no use making it worse.”

“I already have a headache,” Keith grumbles. “Kolivan’s going to be so upset with me when he hears about this. He already thinks I’m a rookie.”

“We might have bigger problems than that,” Shiro points out. “Like the fact that we don’t know where we’re being taken, or what our captors want.”

Keith turns towards him then. In the faint light, Shiro can just make out a concerned expression.

“You okay?” Keith asks.

Shiro keeps staring at the door. “On edge,” he admits. “Can’t believe they got the jump on us like that.”

“Yeah,” says Keith. “Me neither.”

But it had happened so fast. They’d gone after Shiro first, tripping him as he entered the rendezvous and leaping in with the cuffs. He’d put up a fight, but the instant his Galra arm was secured, he was useless. And then they’d put a gun to his head, and Keith had surrendered.

Shiro appreciates it. He does. He knows, objectively, that he holds too much responsibility right now for his death to be worth Keith’s freedom. But that doesn’t mean he can’t feel guilty.

Keith thunks his head against the wall again.

“I told you not to do that!” Shiro shakes his head. “Keith, you know we’re in for enough pain as it is, right?”

“I know,” Keith says, his voice serious and low. “It’s just…I need a distraction.”

“Fair.” Shiro thinks a second. “When Matt and I were in prison, we used to play a lot of games. You know, like kids’ road trip games, stuff you don’t have to have any materials for. Wanna give that a try?”

 Keith hesitates. “Sure. I don’t really know any, though.”

“Oh man,” says Shiro. “You are missing out.”

“I don’t feel like that’s true, exactly,” Keith mutters. “But fine. Teach me one.”

Shiro forces a grin. “Do you want a memory one or a speed one? Or do you want to sing a song?”

“Sing a song?” Keith turns his head to stare at Shiro.

“Listen,” says Shiro. “The worst part of prison is the boredom. You get desperate.”

It comes out less joking than he means it to.

Keith shrugs, a quiet rub of his shoulder against Shiro’s. “Fine then. Speed game.”

“Okay.” Shiro thinks a second. “So one of us will pick a category and name an item in it. Next person has to say another item in the category, but starting with the last letter of the previous item. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Keith.

“And you can’t pause.”

“Okay,” says Keith. He still sounds—maybe tense, maybe bored. Maybe both. “Uh, you pick first.”

Shiro thinks again. He really wants to pick something hard, one of the ones Matt used to pull on him—invertebrates, or microorganisms, or something like that. But this is Keith’s first time playing.

“Professions,” Shiro says. “Astronaut.”

“Uh,” says Keith. “Tanner?”

“Tanner?” Shiro repeats.

“Yeah.” Keith frowns. “Like tanning leather.”

“Counts, I guess,” Shiro says. “Uh, R. Radiologist.”

“You gave me T again,” Keith protests. “What else starts with T?”

“Lots of things start with T.” Shiro can feel his competitive side kick in. “Are you giving up, cadet?”

“Never, _sir_.” Keith bumps Shiro’s knee with his own. “Tinker.”

“Oh, yeah, just give me another R,” Shiro grumbles. “And another out-of-date profession. That’s fine. Representative.”

“That’s not a job.”

“Yes it is! They get paid!”

“But it’s not specific!”

“At least it’s not a profession that hasn’t even existed in the last three hundred years!” Shiro shifts against the wall. His left arm is starting to fall asleep, and his right shoulder is killing him. “E, Keith.”

“Endocrinologist,” says Keith.

“Teacher.”

Keith groans. “Why didn’t I think of that? Registrar.”

“Reporter.”

“No! Uh, real estate agent?”

“That doesn’t count,” Shiro says. “The actual job is agent. Real estate is just an adjective.”

“The whole thing is the job,” Keith shoots back. “You just don’t want another one that starts with T.”

“Tailor,” Shiro says.

“No!” Keith exclaims. “Fuck you, Shiro.”

“Is that a surrender?” Shiro teases.

“Fuck you,” Keith says again. “Railroad…er.”

“Hah,” says Shiro. “Not a word!”

Keith groans and thunks his head against the wall. “Fine. You win.”

“Stop doing that!” He’s really irritated now, the feeling spiking out of that dull terror that pervades his whole body. “Keith, seriously. Don’t give yourself a concussion before they even get the chance.”

“I won’t give myself a concussion,” Keith retorts. “Like I said, it’s a distraction. That’s all, okay?”

Shiro takes a deep breath. They can work through this, he tells himself. “A distraction from what?”

“Nothing,” Keith says. “I mean, everything. This. But nothing particular.”

“It’s cute that you think I can’t see through you,” Shiro says, concern starting to overwhelm his frustration. “Did they hurt you when we got caught?”

Keith shakes his head. “Nah, just a bruise or two. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” Shiro asks. “If there’s something you need, you should let me know. I want to help, Keith.”

“You can’t help,” Keith points out. “What are you going to do? We’re both stuck here.”

“Fair,” Shiro admits. “But still. I’d like to know.”

Keith exhales slowly. “I need the bathroom,” he mumbles.

Shit, Shiro thinks. God. He takes back what he said about boredom being the worst part of captivity. The worst part is having no control, no liberty to perform basic functions like eating and sleeping and peeing as needed.

“How bad?” he asks.

“Bad.” Keith’s voice is still quiet, ashamed. “I thought I could hold out, but I forgot to go before we left on the mission.”

“Are you getting cramps?” Shiro asks.

“A little.” Keith shifts again, and what Shiro can see of his face is wrinkled with pain. “What—what do we do?”

“Well,” Shiro says. He inhales, stays calm. “There’s two options. One, we try getting their attention. It might backfire on us, but it’s an option. Two, well—”

“Two, I piss myself?” Keith completely fails to sound casual. “I mean. Sorry. I don’t—like if it were just me, that’d be one thing, but I don’t, I mean. That’s not fair to you.”

Shiro gives a half-laugh. “It’s just pee, Keith. I’ve had worse and so have you. But it’s completely up to you. You want me to ask them to let us out?”

Keith’s head droops. “Yeah,” he says.

“All right.” Shiro smiles reassuringly, though Keith probably can’t tell in the darkness, and gets awkwardly to his feet. He bangs the side of his metal elbow against the door.

“Hey!” he calls. “Bathroom emergency, hey!”

No immediate response. Shiro’s legs complain at having to unbend after being folded up for so long, but at least the closet is tall enough for him to stand upright.

“Please,” he calls again, trying to sound obedient but not too desperate. It’s a practiced tone, and it comes back more easily than he would’ve liked. “Please, we need the bathroom.”

Also, damn, his shoulder hurts. The arm is even heavier once he’s standing up, unable to rest it against the wall and floor for some measure of relief. But he keeps knocking with his elbow as best he can, hoping for an answer.

It takes a while. But finally, there’s grumbling at the front of the ship, followed by a couple sets of approaching footsteps. Keith stands up carefully.

“You try anything and we’ll shoot,” calls one of their captors from the other side of the door. “Understand?”

“Yes sir,” Shiro answers. Obedient, but not desperate. He hates that he’s still good at this.

The door opens.

Shiro ducks his head, not meeting the guards’ eyes, and edges back a little so they grab Keith first. But instead of leaving Shiro in the cell, they bring him out too, a gun to the nape of his neck.

Keith’s eyes widen. Shiro can tell he wants to yell, fight, talk back, anything, but he bites down on his lip and stays quiet.

The guard who’s got Shiro points to a bucket across the cargo hold. “There you go,” he says.

Keith hesitates. He’s in his one-piece Blade of Marmora uniform, and his hands are still behind his back.

“You too good for a bucket?” the other guard jibes. “Need me to get you a solid gold toilet? Or maybe one carved of Balmeran crystal. Want everything handed to you, huh? Just like you want to run the Empire?”

“No,” Keith grits out. He’s physically shaking with the effort of not retorting—or maybe it’s the humiliation, or maybe both. Shiro can’t be sure.

“Sir,” Shiro says. “Can you uncuff his hands? He won’t do anything. You’ve got me for surety.”

Keith tosses Shiro a look that might be gratitude, might be wounded pride.

“Fine,” says Keith’s guard. He digs in his pockets for the key. “You gonna prove your friend a liar?” he asks Keith. “Cause if you do, he gets shot.”

“You wouldn’t shoot him,” Keith says. “You need him to bargain with. He’s more valuable to the Galra than me.”

“Hey now,” the guard retorts, shoving at Keith’s gut. Keith’s whole body clenches immediately. “Who said we were going to the Galra?”

Shiro’s eyes widen, and he stores that piece of information away to process later. “Keith,” he says, quietly. “Just give them your word, please.”

“Fine,” says Keith. “I won’t pull anything.”

The guard unlocks the cuffs, while his companion, gun threatening steadily with one hand, pushes Shiro to his knees with the other. Shiro obeys, keeping his head down but his eyes on Keith.

Keith rubs his wrists for a quick, stolen second—his arms have to hurt; Shiro’s certainly do—then quickly peels down his suit and boxers and takes care of his business over the bucket.

When he’s done, he holds his wrists out in front of him for the cuffs.

Smart, Shiro thinks, but risky.

The guard catches it. Tosses a look to his companion, who moves quick and then—

And then Shiro’s screaming.

The shot pierces his right bicep, just inches above the graft with the Galra arm. The pain’s an explosion, flashes of white behind his eyelids, and he’s on the ground and no, he can’t, he’s got to stop screaming, they like that, they’ll do it again.

Shiro bites down on his tongue, ragged muffled groans still escaping. Around him there’s yelling—Keith’s voice, the guards’—and the sound of fists.

“Please,” Shiro calls out, as soon as he can get words back into his head. “Please, no, Keith—”

Keith quiets.

“Keith,” Shiro says again. “Just—just obey.”

He lays his face down on the cold floor and closes his eyes, just for a second. It’s so hard to keep conscious, but he’s got to. The Galra arm feels heavier than ever. Broken bone? Definitely shock, he thinks, shock is bad, and he drags in air to keep himself awake.

And then Keith is beside him, kneeling. Shiro opens his eyes again and peers up at Keith through the flashes of white across his vision. There’s blood and bruises on his face.

“You’re hurt,” Shiro mumbles.

“Look who’s talking,” Keith says. His hands are cuffed behind him again and his voice threatens to break. “Shiro, come on. Stay with me.”

“Just a flesh wound.” Shiro thinks he made Keith watch that, once. “Just…flesh wound.”

“Get up,” says another voice, a rough one, and Shiro squints up to see the guard who shot him pointing his gun at Keith.

“Okay, okay,” Keith says. His voice is definitely shaky now, Shiro thinks, and it hurts Shiro almost more than his arm does. He doesn’t like it when Keith is scared. He doesn’t like any of this.

“Get back in the closet,” the guard directs.

“What about Shiro?” Keith asks.

“Him too. Get him up.” The guard waves his blaster, a little too carelessly. Bad gun safety. Gets people shot.

Shiro almost laughs, but then he remembers that’s not smart. They don’t like it when you laugh. They don’t like much of anything. And if they do like something, they might hit you to make you keep doing it. Shiro doesn’t want to get hit. He’s so tired. And he doesn’t want Keith to get hit either.

“Shiro.” It’s Keith’s voice. “Shiro, you’ve got to get up. I—I can’t lift you, Shiro, okay? I’m cuffed. But we have to get back in the closet.”

Shiro bites his lip. He doesn’t want to go back. But if it keeps Keith safe—

“Okay,” he says, and tries to get a knee under him. But the pressure on his face and his throbbing shoulder are too much and he collapses back down.

One of the guards kicks him. Not too hard, more warning than pain. “Get up!”

Shiro tries again. He rolls onto his side, this time, the left side, and almost manages to sit up, but he overbalances. Keith tries to move in and help, but the guard with the gun grabs him. Pulls him back.

“Get up!” the other guard repeats to Shiro, with a real kick this time. “You dumb bastard. Some rebel fighter, huh? Can’t even stand on his own two feet?”

Shiro grits his teeth and hopes Keith doesn’t take the bait. Hauling in a breath, he tries again, rolling up from his side until one knee is under him. The pain’s so much, and the weight of the Galra arm on top of that—

He’s not sure he can get any closer to upright than where he’s at right now. But if he doesn’t want to get kicked again, he has to. If he doesn’t want Keith to worry, he has to be able to at least do this.

 The guard kicks him again—his ribs on the right, this time, and Shiro screams. The pain’s already radiated from his upper arm through his shoulder and down his side, and the force is enough that he falls flat, slamming his nose against the floor and losing all the progress he’d won.

“Stop!” Keith yells, hoarse and angry. “Stop—please, you already shot him. You need to beat up on somebody, I’m here. Won’t pass out on you so quick, either. Or is that what you want? To kick the shit out of a downed enemy cause you can’t take him in a fair fight?”

The guard standing over Shiro moves away. Shiro’s scared, so scared for Keith, but at the same time he’s grateful for the respite. If he could just get out of these cuffs, he could stand up. Fight, even. He’s certainly fought through wounds like this before. But with his right arm completely useless and his left tied to his right…

“You calling me a coward?” growls the guard. “Or do you just want a blaster bolt of your own?”

“I’m saying if you kill him,” Keith spits, “the bounty goes down. It’s less than half as much dead as alive.”

There’s a smack, and Keith exhales sharply.

“How many times are you going to try that angle?” the other guard says, with a mocking laugh. “We aren’t after a bounty—we know the Galra wouldn’t give us a pardon just for bringing in one Blade. It’s Kolivan we’re trying to deal with, and this guy isn’t even one of his own.”

Keith lets out another, shuddery breath.

Don’t tell them, Shiro thinks hard at Keith. He tries to pull at the Voltron bond, tries to get the message through. Please, don’t tell them we’re also paladins.

And even peering up from the floor, Shiro can see the moment Keith realizes how much worse that would make things, how bad their situation already is.

“Okay,” Keith says. His posture shifts; his eyes drop. “I’m sorry. I won’t—I’ll stop fighting. I’m sorry.”

The guard who shot Shiro earlier, backhands Keith across the face one more time. Keith accepts the blow quietly, with just a tiny grunt on impact.

“Get back in your cell,” comes the order. Keith freezes for a moment, looking at Shiro. Shiro attempts a reassuring nod.

Keith goes. His shoulders are slumped in a way Shiro’s never seen before, like the whole universe is weighing there.

Oh, Shiro realizes, distantly through the screaming of his body. Keith thinks this is his fault.

This was not the way Shiro wanted to rub off on his team.

But he can’t think through it too much, not yet, not now. Not now when his own fate is undecided, when the pain is so bad he feels like he’s nothing but a body, limp and heavy and aching on the dirty floor.

There’s some clunking footsteps, and two pair of boots stop in front of Shiro’s face. Instinctively he tries to pull away, curl in on himself. His nose is already bleeding from the fall he took; the last thing he need is a kick in the teeth.

 “This one knows his place.” Shiro can’t tell the voices apart anymore—they’re both mocking, cruel. One of the boots moves in under his chin, pressing a little against his airway.

Don’t panic, Shiro tells himself. Don’t panic, don’t—

He can hardly breathe.

But the foot moves away. Shiro gulps air; the guards laugh. His wound burns, pulses pain up and down until his whole body’s consumed with it.

“Guess we should put him back in there, huh,” says one. “Doesn’t look like he’ll be moving on his own.”

“I bet you he can,” says the other. “Just gotta motivate him enough.”

The first one snorts. “How? He looks like he’d pass out if you so much as slapped him.”

“Hey, pain’s not the only motivator.”

Shiro swallows hard at that. He doesn’t want to move. He wants to close his eyes and wake up back on the castle. Or, failing that, just not wake up. Everything hurts so much.

But the second guard crouches in front of him. “Hey, you want some water? Painkiller?”

Shiro swallows again. Nods.

“Thought so,” the guard says. “Now, all you have to do for it is get up.”

It’s a lie, he tells himself; it’s got to be a lie. He can’t let himself hope for a guard to follow through on something like that, not when Shiro’s got nothing to bargain with. He’ll try, yeah, but he can’t hope to actually get the promised reward.

Shiro takes a deep breath. His right arm is still heavy and limp, not to mention hurting; he’ll have to get a lot of momentum to make up for that. The more he can do it in one motion, the easier it’ll be.

He exhales, inhales again, and _moves_.

Rolling onto his left side, Shiro uses the momentum to swing himself up to a sitting position. He almost falls as he gets a knee under him, but steadies out. He’s trained for this. He can do it.

Once he’s on one knee, he springs one foot under him and straightens up, wobbling on unsteady ankles. But he’s standing; he’s on his feet. He’s won.

Shiro keeps his eyes lowered, careful not to challenge his captors as he breathes heavily through the wild rush of pain.

“Well damn,” says the first guard. “Guess we owe him some water.”

The second guard snorts. “What did I tell you? Motivation. Hey, little bitch, what else would you do for a bit of a reward, huh? Would you sell out your friend there? Tell us his little Marmora secrets so we can bribe Kolivan into a better price?”

Shiro’s too worn, too defeated to be properly angry. It’s all he can do to keep on his feet, but he hasn’t been given permission to collapse, so he just shakes his head without lifting his gaze.

“Yeah, good luck with that.” The first guard shakes his head. “You saw what the Blade did for this one. Bet you anything it goes both ways.”

“Please,” says Shiro. He can’t help it any longer.

“Please what, bitch?” asks the second guard.

Shiro is shaking with the effort of staying upright. “Please can I go back to my cell?”

“I thought you wanted water,” the second guard says.

Shiro dares to glance up, just for a second, before he gets himself under control. “Yes,” he admits. “Please.”

“I’ll give you water.” It sounds like a threat. Why is it a threat? What has Shiro done wrong? He’s obeying as best he can, even if he’ll definitely collapse before long.

There’s a rush of motion, too fast for Shiro’s tired eyes to follow, and then the second guard is offering him a cup. Shiro wants to be suspicious, but he’s too depleted for that. Besides, there’s no reason for them to drug or poison him, not at this stage.

He opens his mouth as the cup tips upwards—

—and spits immediately. It’s piss. In all likelihood, it’s _Keith’s_ piss.

The guard laughs and dumps it all over his face.

Shiro chokes. He reels backwards, stumbles, falls hard. Both guards close in. They kick him, then haul him up by his uninjured arm and drag him over to the closet-turned-cell. As soon as they’ve unlocked the door, they shove him and he tumbles in.

“Shiro!” Keith exclaims, as the door slams shut again.

Shiro bites down on his tongue. He can’t cry. He can’t cry; he’s got to hold out. For Keith. He can do it for Keith.

“What did they do to you?” Keith demands, gentle and fierce all at once, and Shiro’s too tired to answer. He collapses into Keith’s lap, thinking only enough to make sure that his weight is resting on his left side. His damp hair falls in his damp face, and he closes his eyes.

“Hey,” Keith says. “Shiro, Shiro, hey. Talk to me.”

Shiro shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to say how much it hurts. Doesn’t want to make Keith feel even more guilty.

“Play a game with me,” he says, instead. It comes out weak, a little slurred. “Distraction.”

“Okay,” Keith says. “Uh, same game?”

Shiro nods. “You pick this time.”

“Our friends,” says Keith. “Let’s—let’s name our friends. Okay? Hunk.”

“Keith,” Shiro whispers.

“H again.” Keith pauses. “Holts? The Holts.”

“Slav.” Shiro chokes out a laugh. “I win.”

“We’ve gotta know somebody who starts with V,” Keith says. He’s quiet for a minute.

“No,” says Shiro. “We don’t. I win.”

“Doesn’t Lance’s sister’s name start with a V?” Keith sounds like he’s frowning, thinking hard. “Veronica?”

“Damn.” It’s Shiro’s turn to think. “Oh, Allura.”

Keith hums. “Antok.”

“Katie,” says Shiro. “That’s Pidge.”

“I don’t know anyone who starts with E,” Keith admits. “Guess you win after all.”

“Keith,” Shiro says.

Keith shifts a little beneath him, like he’s trying to make Shiro more comfortable. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” Words are getting harder and harder to form. Everything hurts so much. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

Keith huffs incredulously. “For what? Shiro, this is my fault. I’m the one who got you hurt.”

Shiro shakes his head, a bare hint of a motion. “My fault,” he insists. “Bad—bad prisoner. Forgot how.”

“I was worse,” Keith says. “Shiro, I got you _shot_.”

“My fault,” Shiro repeats. He’s not really sure anymore of the chain of events, of how everything ended up so painful and dark. But he knows it’s not Keith who’s responsible. “Keith—”

“Yeah?” Keith says. He sniffles.

“Don’t cry,” says Shiro. “We’ll be okay.”

“Don’t lie to me, Shiro.” Keith takes a shaky breath. “I know we’re fucked. We’re captured on a moving ship. Nobody knows where we are, and they won’t know unless Kolivan can set something up. And these guys might not even be trying to deal with Kolivan. I know they said they were, but they could’ve changed their minds. They could’ve lied. And then I got you shot, and—and I know I fucked us over, okay? Don’t act like I don’t know.”

And that’s when Shiro thinks of it.

“Keith,” he says, channeling all the authority he’s got left into his voice. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” says Keith.

“Sit back-to-back with me.”

It’s tight in the closet. They can barely maneuver, and Shiro has to bite down on his tongue more than once to keep from crying out with pain. But finally they’re both sitting up, bound hands touching.

“You aren’t going to like this,” Shiro warns. “But I need you to do it. Okay? The last time I had cuffs like these on, they would only work once both hands were in. And when we got jumped, my Galra hand stayed lit up until they’d caught both wrists. So—”

“So if we can get the left one off,” Keith says, slowly, “you’re armed again.”

“Can’t guarantee it,” Shiro says. “But I think so. And it’s our best chance.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Tell me how,” says Keith. “I’ll do it.”

Shiro swallows hard. “You’ll have to break it. Top of the thumb, where it meets the wrist. Dislocating it won’t let the cuff go far enough down to actually come off.”

“You’ve done this before, huh?” Keith laughs anxiously. “Okay. Right here?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. Two questions, one answer. Good enough. “It’ll be harder than you think. Don’t worry about hurting me, okay. I’ll try not to move much. Might—might pass out, but keep trying. Get the cuff off, no matter what. Okay?”

Keith sniffles again, then swallows back a sob. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Ready?”

“Yes,” Shiro lies.

Keith positions both of his bound hands around Shiro’s left one, holding it still. Then he counts down from three.

Shiro hears himself scream when the bone cracks.

He tries to cut it off as soon as he notices. Bad. Bad to make noise. The Galra always hear—

Everything is fuzzy and bright with pain, and then there’s only darkness.

When he comes to, disoriented and sticky-slow, someone is talking to him.

“Shiro. Shiro!”

Shiro opens his eyes, but things don’t really get brighter. He squints and makes out what might be a face, framed by floppy hair.

“Keith?” he tries to say.

“Shiro,” says probably-Keith. “We’ve got to—are you ready? Can you get up?”

Shiro blinks, trying to clear his vision. It must be dark in the cell. No purple strip lights, which is weird. Are they not with the Galra?

“Where are we?” he asks in return.

“Got captured by some of Kolivan’s weapon dealers.” Yeah, it’s definitely Keith. “But you’re out of the cuffs that were keeping your arm off. Do you think—”

Oh, Shiro thinks, as the situation rushes back and the pain with it. “Yeah,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I can—I’ve got maybe sixty seconds of energy in me. Can’t, I can’t fight _good_ , but I can fight.”

“Okay,” Keith says. “We can work with that. If you can get us out of here quietly, we’ll sneak up on the closest guard and try to get his gun. I think there’s one just outside, in the cargo hold. And once I have a gun I can do the rest. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Shiro. He grits his teeth and pushes to his feet, then feels for the doorknob.

“Ready?” he asks Keith.

“Ready,” Keith says.

Shiro lights up his hand (it works, thank fuck, it _works_ ) and burns through the lock.

There’s no immediate response. Using his Galra hand, since the other is too weak, he pushes the door open a crack and peers out. The guard is sitting on a crate, his back turned to them.

Shiro nods to Keith and opens the door the rest of the way. Silent as they can manage, they slip across the floor. As soon as Keith gets close, he twirls around and catches the guard’s neck inside his cuffs, choking him against the metal; Shiro shoves his burning hand through the guy’s chest and watches the life flicker from his eyes.

Then he pulls his hand back out, panting hard, and burns through the link in Keith’s cuffs. Keith grins at him and sweeps up the guard’s fallen blaster rifle, bracing it against his shoulder.

They charge into the cockpit.

Keith’s already shooting, a little haphazardly. Three people. Shiro goes for the closest one, ducking breathlessly under her punch, getting his Galra hand on whatever he can. She’s dead in seconds and Keith’s downed another and the third—

And the third, the one who shot Shiro, is behind Keith. His blade is tight against Keith’s throat, nicking the skin.

“Stand down!” he orders.

Shiro stops halfway through a lurch towards Keith and overbalances, losing his footing. He goes to his knees. The pain’s hitting him again. He’s not going to be conscious much longer.

“You can’t,” Keith grits out. His Adam’s apple moves against the knife as he talks, and blood trickles. “There’s one of you and two of us. You can’t do this anymore.”

“Keith,” Shiro cautions, because he doesn’t doubt that this guard would even those odds by slitting Keith’s throat. He puts up his hands, the metal one that’s not so heavy anymore but pulls horribly at his shot-through arm, and the flesh one with its thumb dangling at a sickening angle. They’ve got to figure something out soon, or Shiro will black out and they’ll both be locked up again.

The guard starts to pull Keith towards the console, where a spare pair of cuffs is sitting. He picks them up, then pauses a moment to figure out how he can keep the threat of the knife there while also effectively tying up his prisoners.

That moment is all Keith needs.

The knife gives him a little space and he ducks straight down, past it, to the floor and into a combat roll towards his dropped blaster rifle. By the time the guard realizes what’s happened, Keith’s got him at gunpoint.

“You stand down,” Keith says.

Shiro starts struggling to his feet, cradling both his arms close to himself, and then totters again and thunks down into the copilot’s chair.

“You gonna spare my life if I do?” asks the guard.

Keith hesitates a moment, and that, in turn, is all the guard needs. He flings his knife at Keith; Keith pulls the trigger on reflex; they both fall.

“Keith!” Shiro yells. Fear drives him to his feet again. “Keith!”

There’s movement in the tangle of their bodies. Shiro forces himself across the floor, practically hobbling now, and lights up his hand.

But it’s Keith who’s moving. The guard’s got a blaster bolt through his eye, and Keith—bloody, gasping—is the one moving.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes. He powers down his hand.

Keith grimaces horribly, but stands up. He’s bleeding profusely from his side, but the knife only grazed him; it’s lying harmless on the floor on the other side of the cockpit.

“Fuck,” Keith exclaims, as moving tears at the wound. He rips the hood off his Marmora suit and presses it to his side to slow the blood flow. “Shiro, you okay?”

“I’ll live,” says Shiro. He musters a smile and then everything flickers, gray to black.

They made it, he thinks, as his body crumples, as Keith catches him. They’re going to live.


End file.
